Having closed the door again, he returned to his writing table and slipped the transcription of the letter into a thin leather envelope. He carried it to the chair, lifted the rug, dislodged a floorboard, and hid the secret document before returning everything to its normal place.
Or almost.
As he saw at once, a corner of the rug remained rolled up: an obvious discrepancy which was at odds with the perfect order of the room.
The ensign hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and prepared to leave. He pulled his fouled boots back on, strapped on his belt, took his hat, and threw his folded cape over his shoulder. In the distance, the Sainte-Opportune bell tower tolled the half hour, almost immediately followed by the Saints-Innocents church.
20
At Les Petites Grenouilles, Marciac woke sated and happy in a very rumpled bed, and leaned on an elbow to watch Gabrielle as she brushed her hair, sitting half naked in front of her dressing table. This sight made his joy complete. She was beautiful, the folds of cloth which barely covered her had all the elegance of the drapery of ancient statues, and the light of the setting sun shining through the window made the loose strands of hair at the nape of her slender neck iridescent, flattered her pale round shoulders, and outlined the curve of her satiny back in amber. It was one of those perfect moments when all the harmony of the world is combined. The room was silent. Only the faint sound of the brush caressing her smooth hair could be heard.
After a moment, Gabrielle caught her lover’s gaze in the mirror and, without turning, broke the spelclass="underline" “You should keep the ring.”
The Gascon saw the prize that he had won in the duel. Gabrielle had removed it from her finger and placed it near her jewel case.
“I gave it to you,” said Marciac. “I shall not take it back again.”
“You need it.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. To repay La Rabier.”
Marciac sat up in bed. Gabrielle, her back still turned to him, continued to brush her hair, saying no more.
“You know about that?” he said.
She shrugged.
“Of course. All secrets are known in Paris. All you have to do is listen… Do you owe her much?”
Marciac didn’t reply.
He let himself fall back onto the bed, arms opened wide, and contemplated the canopy above his head.
“As much as that?” said Gabrielle in a quiet voice.
“Yes.”
“How did you let it come to this, Nicolas?”
There was both reproach and commiseration in the tone of her voice-a tone which was, ultimately, very maternal.
“I played, I won, I lost triple,” explained the Gascon.
“Mother Rabier is a vicious woman. She can harm you.”
“I know.”
“And the men she employs have blood on their hands.”
“I know that as well.”
Laying her brush down, Gabrielle turned in her chair and fixed Marciac with a clear and penetrating gaze.
“She should be paid. Would this ring be enough?”
“It would be enough to make a start.”
“Then it’s decided.”
They exchanged a smile. A smile full of affection from her, and one full of gratitude from him.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t mention it.”
“I should consult you over every decision I make.”
“If you merely do the opposite of whatever your whim dictates, all will be well.”
Smiling easily, Marciac rose and began to dress while his mistress drew on her stockings, another spectacle of which he missed nothing.
Then, without preamble, Gabrielle said: “A letter arrived here for you.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“And as you were still furious with me,” guessed the Gascon while lacing his breeches, “you burnt it.”
“No.”
“Not even tore it up?”
“No.”
“Nor crumpled it?”
“You’re infuriating, Nicolas!” exclaimed Gabrielle.
She had almost shouted, and then, stiffening, stared straight ahead.
As they had often teased each other like this, he couldn’t explain her reaction. His chest bare, he watched the woman he loved and detected her anguish.
“What is it, Gabrielle?”
With her index finger, she discreetly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. He approached her and, leaning over her from behind, held her gently.
“Tell me,” he murmured.
“Forgive me. It’s for you.”
Marciac took the letter she held out to him, and understood her distress when he saw the emblem stamped into the red wax seal.
It was that of Cardinal Richelieu.
“I thought…” said Gabrielle in a strangled voice, “I thought that this period of your life was over.”
He had thought so too.
21
The sun was still high when Agnes de Vaudreuil arrived in sight of the village. Her doublet open and her sheathed rapier beating against her thigh, she was covered in the dust raised by her galloping horse’s hooves since she left the manor with all speed. She had pink cheeks and her face shone with sweat. Thrown into disarray by the ride, her long plait was now a mess of loose braids barely held together at their ends, with many full black curls having already escaped completely. Her face, however, still expressed a combination of relentless determination and contained anger. And her gaze remained fixed on the objective toward which her foaming mount progressed without flagging.
From a mere hamlet, the village had grown up around its church at the crossroads between two roads which wound between wooded hills. It was still only a staging post on the Chantilly Road and it owed its incipient prosperity to the Silver Cask, an inn renowned for the quality of its cellar and kitchen, and the amiable company of its serving girls. Local people went there for a glass of wine on occasion and well-informed travellers would happily sleep there-on their outward journey if their business did not require them to be in Chantilly at daybreak, or else upon their return.
Agnes slowed as she passed the first houses. In the streets her horse trod the same beaten ground as on the road, and she guided it into the heart of the village at a trot. In front of the Silver Cask’s porch, the villagers were dispersing. They smiled and chattered with one another, sometimes making grand gestures. One of them climbed onto a mossy stone bench and raised a laugh by miming blows and vigorous kicks up the arse. All of them seemed delighted, as though they were leaving a theatre where they had seen an exceptionally funny farce. Agnes guessed who might be behind this festive mood, which didn’t bode well. Just because the spectators were delighted did not mean that the spectacle itself had been pleasant. In these times, crowds gathered to witness the public punishment of condemned criminals and were greatly amused by the many howls and twitches of the unfortunates being thus tormented.
On seeing the horsewoman pass, some of them doffed their caps, and the clown climbed down from his bench.
“Who is that?” asked someone.
“The baronne de Vaudreuil.”
“Our Lady!”
“As you say, my friend. As you say…”
The Silver Cask was a picturesque sight with its crooked buildings, its old and beautiful grey stone, its facades covered with ivy, and its red-tiled roofs.
Agnes dismounted just beyond the porch, her spurs jingling as the heels of her riding boots touched the cobblestones of the courtyard. She wiped her shining face with the back of her sleeve, unbound her hair, and shook her head to make her heavy black curls fall into place. Then, dishevelled, dusty, and yet heedless of anyone’s glance, she looked around.
She recognised the innkeeper standing in front of the main building, trying to calm the impatience, if not the anger, of several patrons. Nervous and agitated, they were vying with one another for the chance to roundly scold the man, punctuating each angry point with jabs of their index fingers at his chest. The innkeeper made appeasing gestures expressing his most fawning respect, all the while preventing anyone from entering the building. But his efforts proved unsuccessful. His customers would not be soothed, and Agnes noticed that the appearance of a few of them-if not quite as disorderly as her own-left something to be desired. One had the right sleeve of his doublet, torn at the shoulder, tightly wrapped around his elbow; another, shirt hanging out from his breeches, was pressing a wet cloth against his face; a third was wearing a badly dented hat, and his lace collar hung down miserably.